Let me hear you. [ His own voice hitching at the press of Gale's mouth to his jaw, finding a rhythm in his strokes, wondering at the heat of him in his hand.
Astarion wants everyone to hear him: their companions, the shadows, the gods. Mystra. Wants them to know Gale is more than a piece to be played on a lanceboard, that he belongs with someone here. ]
[ In most things, Gale would never hope to be quiet. In this, a tryst in the real, their companions and hosts rattling walls apart, it’s — a consideration. But Astarion asks to hear, when he has allowed himself to want for little and request even less, until now.
Gale muffles a gasp in Astarion’s shoulder first, cock already leaking, before he lets his head fall back on the pillows. Throat bared, eyes glazed, hands still roving. One splays over Astarion’s pale chest, where his heart should beat, while the other grips his arm, anchoring. His hips buck into Astarion’s hand, one, twice, and he comes with a broken cry. ]
[ A possessiveness coils through Astarion as Gale comes for him -- for him, because of him. When it came to his victims, Astarion never lingered in the afterglow: always cleaned himself up and moved on to the more grim stage of their entanglements.
The moment Gale comes, Astarion holds a hand steady at his hip and lifts the dirtied one to his mouth, meeting his gaze through lowered lashes as he licks his fingers clean, echoing Gale in a murmur: ] Perfect.
[ And then he dips his head to Gale's chest and stomach, tongue laving everywhere Gale's made a mess of himself; dragging over his navel, teeth grazing a nipple. A mean thing to do when he's likely extra sensitive after he's just come, but Astarion's never been nice. ]
[ This time, Astarion is the steady counterpart to his overstimulation. It’s been so long since Gale dared touch himself, let alone allowed anyone near, that he rattles apart under the intensity of their closeness, every touch and word washing over him. Perfect, despite his damnation. Unworthy, in every sense of the word. Half-wounded, half-transfixed as Astarion doesn’t still, nails firm at his hip. ]
Gods. [ Mouth parted in surprise at Astarion’s display, aftershocks rolling down his spine, all the way to his cock as Astarion licks him clean. As if he can’t get enough, undeniable proof of desire, and Gale reflects the feeling back, swiftly winding an arm around Astarion. ] Astarion — [ A whimper cuts off whatever he intended to say, fingers threading through dishevelled curls, thumb straying to the tip of his ear. ]
You are sin itself. [ Breathy but admiring, as he comes down from the high that Astarion teases revisiting. ] But you must have mercy on a mere mortal, prostrate at your devilish throne.
I'm no devil, darling. [ His voice low, amused before he presses another lingering kiss to the center of Gale's chest, beneath the orb. Astarion's brow creases with a shiver at the touch to his ear, catching Gale's wrist so he can twine their fingers and kiss his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] Or I'd have claimed your soul all for myself by now.
Haven’t you already? [ teasing, though there’s a low undercurrent of truth. He had thought it would be easy, to obey Mystra’s summons and speed to the end he was already nearing. But the closer he finds himself to the precipice, the clearer Astarion’s voice rings in his ear, calling him back from the ledge. We’ll find another way. Any other way. The kiss to his blight echoes it.
Gale edges toward the unsayable again, confession climbing his throat. Astarion looks at once soft and too-pleased, equal parts tender and wanting. In lieu of saying it — of saying anything more — Gale tugs on their linked hands and tightens his arm around Astarion to hold him close, nose buried in his curls. ]
[ Astarion likes that flirtatious concession more than he wants to admit, because nothing in this life has ever been his; not claimed nor conquered, and certainly not willingly given.
A desperate part of him wants to conquer, because then Gale will have to listen when Astarion tells him to stay. ]
Well, clearly it's mine through morning. [ His posture softening into the curve of Gale's body, limbs twining around him as he rests his head on Gale's chest, listens to the beat of his heart. Astarion may not need sleep, but it's easy enough to consider it in Gale's arms and his bed, that space-between where they can pretend neither of them will have to wake and be heroes, of all things. ]
Mm. [ He catches the slight evasion in Astarion’s phrasing, filed away for later. To be discussed in the morning, if he remembers this exchange as clearly as all that came before. Hard not to be distracted by the warm weight on his chest, heated by his touch alone.
Gale cards his fingers through Astarion’s hair, straying from their careful work only to soothe the tension at his temple and smooth the crease from his brow. At the back of his mind, he wonders: Has Mystra allowed him this as a final comfort? The last wishes of the dying, given only in exchange for his renewed devotion and ultimate sacrifice. ]
You’ll drink from me, won’t you? [ Tonight, as he drifts, or tomorrow, when Gale hopes to wake here, with a delicate hand on his chest and sharp teeth scraping his throat. ] It’s been too long.
[ A twinge of guilt, that his callousness kept sustenance from Astarion in this horrid place, bereft of wildlife. None of their companions stepped up to fill his role in the interim, or if they did, Astarion must have denied them. (Gale ignores the selfish pleasure he feels at that, when he would have viewed another bearing the bites like a lover coming to bed with lipstick on their throat.)
And after you’ve gone? His blunt nails drag against Astarion’s scalp. He’ll make arrangements. Wyll, maybe, in his kindness and heroism, though he hates the thought of it, even so. ]
[ Astarion can't help but lean into Gale's stroking like a contented cat, lashes lowered. It has been too long; the reminder seems to pull forth the weariness in his bones, very aware that the energy reserves he's been drawing from have long since run dry. Hasn't even had anyone to bite in the thick of battle, in this land of shadows. ]
I'll wake you with a nibble. [ Astarion lifts his gaze enough to watch as he curves a hand at the base of Gale's throat, letting go of a soft hum as his fingers cover the tendrils of his blight. ] Your throat does look naked without my marks.
[ Under Astarion’s hand, his pulse quickens. His long fingers, his razored teeth — madly, Gale thinks they belong there.
And emboldened by all they’ve done tonight (as well as the promise that Astarion will be here in the morning), he doesn’t shy away from it. ]
Feels that way, too. [ Bereft of the lovely ache, the visceral reminder of where he’s been, of who he’s been with. He already confessed to enjoying it in the Underdark, but it feels essential to reinforce, now that he lacks the same hunger. ] You’ve spoilt me.
[ As though it’s a gift. To Gale, it is. The first intimate thing they shared, the preceding incident to a tender kiss. ]
Have I? [ Spoiled is not the word most would use for the experience of being a vampire's go-to snack, but Astarion feels a surge of pleasure that Gale's chosen it. He has always been less-than as spawn: leagues less powerful than Cazador, less important, less worthy. Gale has been open about enjoying the bite, yes -- and his affection for Astarion -- but the intertwining of both still feels so fresh, after two hundred years.
Astarion feels the tender bones and sinew beneath his fingers, sweeping them up below Gale's jaw, the warmth of his pulse and scratch of his beard. ] Do go on.
That is to say — [ an inevitable stumble here, flush climbing his throat and heating the skin beneath Astarion’s fine hand. ]
It wouldn’t surprise you to know I rarely stop thinking. [ A self-deprecating chuckle. His fingers drift to the nape of Astarion’s neck, curling in the short hairs there. Sometimes, from the way Astarion looks at him, Gale thinks ge might be able to hear his pulsing, twisting thoughts as they spiral out of control. ] I can’t. [ A flaw in his brilliant systems that predates the orb and Mystra both.] But when you drink from me, everything quiets.
[ His other hand flattens, a possessive pressure at the small of Astarion’s back. ]
And after, it — the marks. [ The ones he couldn’t stop touching the first time or the second, caught in the act while they trailed behind Tav. ] It’s proof of what happened. That it happened with you. [ Not Mystra, nor anyone else. His gaze swivels up, searching the lush canopy above them for purchase as he decides whether to embarrass himself further. His fingers drum against Astarion’s spine, stalling. ] It’s like you’ve staked your claim. [ Oh, god. Hastily — ] Or something like that.
[ Says the man who delighted in being called Chosen, who still wears the earring Mystra crafted from purest weave and bestowed upon him as a token. A mark, for all to see. ]
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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Astarion wants everyone to hear him: their companions, the shadows, the gods. Mystra. Wants them to know Gale is more than a piece to be played on a lanceboard, that he belongs with someone here. ]
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Gale muffles a gasp in Astarion’s shoulder first, cock already leaking, before he lets his head fall back on the pillows. Throat bared, eyes glazed, hands still roving. One splays over Astarion’s pale chest, where his heart should beat, while the other grips his arm, anchoring. His hips buck into Astarion’s hand, one, twice, and he comes with a broken cry. ]
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The moment Gale comes, Astarion holds a hand steady at his hip and lifts the dirtied one to his mouth, meeting his gaze through lowered lashes as he licks his fingers clean, echoing Gale in a murmur: ] Perfect.
[ And then he dips his head to Gale's chest and stomach, tongue laving everywhere Gale's made a mess of himself; dragging over his navel, teeth grazing a nipple. A mean thing to do when he's likely extra sensitive after he's just come, but Astarion's never been nice. ]
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Gods. [ Mouth parted in surprise at Astarion’s display, aftershocks rolling down his spine, all the way to his cock as Astarion licks him clean. As if he can’t get enough, undeniable proof of desire, and Gale reflects the feeling back, swiftly winding an arm around Astarion. ] Astarion — [ A whimper cuts off whatever he intended to say, fingers threading through dishevelled curls, thumb straying to the tip of his ear. ]
You are sin itself. [ Breathy but admiring, as he comes down from the high that Astarion teases revisiting. ] But you must have mercy on a mere mortal, prostrate at your devilish throne.
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Gale edges toward the unsayable again, confession climbing his throat. Astarion looks at once soft and too-pleased, equal parts tender and wanting. In lieu of saying it — of saying anything more — Gale tugs on their linked hands and tightens his arm around Astarion to hold him close, nose buried in his curls. ]
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A desperate part of him wants to conquer, because then Gale will have to listen when Astarion tells him to stay. ]
Well, clearly it's mine through morning. [ His posture softening into the curve of Gale's body, limbs twining around him as he rests his head on Gale's chest, listens to the beat of his heart. Astarion may not need sleep, but it's easy enough to consider it in Gale's arms and his bed, that space-between where they can pretend neither of them will have to wake and be heroes, of all things. ]
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Gale cards his fingers through Astarion’s hair, straying from their careful work only to soothe the tension at his temple and smooth the crease from his brow. At the back of his mind, he wonders: Has Mystra allowed him this as a final comfort? The last wishes of the dying, given only in exchange for his renewed devotion and ultimate sacrifice. ]
You’ll drink from me, won’t you? [ Tonight, as he drifts, or tomorrow, when Gale hopes to wake here, with a delicate hand on his chest and sharp teeth scraping his throat. ] It’s been too long.
[ A twinge of guilt, that his callousness kept sustenance from Astarion in this horrid place, bereft of wildlife. None of their companions stepped up to fill his role in the interim, or if they did, Astarion must have denied them. (Gale ignores the selfish pleasure he feels at that, when he would have viewed another bearing the bites like a lover coming to bed with lipstick on their throat.)
And after you’ve gone? His blunt nails drag against Astarion’s scalp. He’ll make arrangements. Wyll, maybe, in his kindness and heroism, though he hates the thought of it, even so. ]
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I'll wake you with a nibble. [ Astarion lifts his gaze enough to watch as he curves a hand at the base of Gale's throat, letting go of a soft hum as his fingers cover the tendrils of his blight. ] Your throat does look naked without my marks.
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And emboldened by all they’ve done tonight (as well as the promise that Astarion will be here in the morning), he doesn’t shy away from it. ]
Feels that way, too. [ Bereft of the lovely ache, the visceral reminder of where he’s been, of who he’s been with. He already confessed to enjoying it in the Underdark, but it feels essential to reinforce, now that he lacks the same hunger. ] You’ve spoilt me.
[ As though it’s a gift. To Gale, it is. The first intimate thing they shared, the preceding incident to a tender kiss. ]
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Astarion feels the tender bones and sinew beneath his fingers, sweeping them up below Gale's jaw, the warmth of his pulse and scratch of his beard. ] Do go on.
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It wouldn’t surprise you to know I rarely stop thinking. [ A self-deprecating chuckle. His fingers drift to the nape of Astarion’s neck, curling in the short hairs there. Sometimes, from the way Astarion looks at him, Gale thinks ge might be able to hear his pulsing, twisting thoughts as they spiral out of control. ] I can’t. [ A flaw in his brilliant systems that predates the orb and Mystra both.] But when you drink from me, everything quiets.
[ His other hand flattens, a possessive pressure at the small of Astarion’s back. ]
And after, it — the marks. [ The ones he couldn’t stop touching the first time or the second, caught in the act while they trailed behind Tav. ] It’s proof of what happened. That it happened with you. [ Not Mystra, nor anyone else. His gaze swivels up, searching the lush canopy above them for purchase as he decides whether to embarrass himself further. His fingers drum against Astarion’s spine, stalling. ] It’s like you’ve staked your claim. [ Oh, god. Hastily — ] Or something like that.
[ Says the man who delighted in being called Chosen, who still wears the earring Mystra crafted from purest weave and bestowed upon him as a token. A mark, for all to see. ]